


Não Tenhas Medo

by facade



Category: Football RPF, Portugal NT RPF
Genre: And I Hate That, But It Defaults to Lowercase Letters, Coming Out, Creloso In Your Face, I Know There's A Tag For Ambiguous Endings, Implied/Ambiguous Situations, M/M, Originally Completed: 2014-05-13, Originally Posted: 2013-11-27, Portugal National Team, Suicidal Thoughts, The Ending Is Ambiguous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-07 07:03:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1889451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/facade/pseuds/facade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“...to love life, to love it even when you have no stomach for it and everything you've held dear crumbles like burnt paper in your hands, your throat filled with the silt of it. When grief sits with you, its tropical heat thickening the air, heavy as water more fit for gills than lungs; when grief weights you like your own flesh only more of it, an obesity of grief, you think, 'How can a body withstand this?' Then you hold life like a face between your palms, a plain face, no charming smile, no violet eyes, and you say, yes, I will take you I will love you, again.”</p><p>― Ellen Bass</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Man in the Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> The title was inspired by/taken from the tile within Miguel Veloso's home. [Não Tenhas Medo](http://videos.sapo.pt/H9vV2kmIriMN7tC69Njw): Be Not Afraid
> 
> He's my spirit animal.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"As he peered into his eyes now […] he saw a mere child who was scared beyond belief, shivering in the rain with no sense of direction. It wasn’t that he was lost, not anymore, he just didn’t know where to go from that point and he hated not knowing what to tell him.”_

He groaned as the sound of his alarm clock bounced off of the bedroom walls, listened as its buzzing noises snuck out beneath the cracks of the door to abuse the silence lingering in the corridors of the otherwise quiet building. Yet he remained unmoved. His eyes remained fixed on the ceiling and his thoughts still lingered high above his comprehension, just beyond his control. He would have to move soon, he knew that he’d have to get up and face the day at some point in time. He just wasn’t sure if he was quite ready for it, didn’t know if he’d ever be ready for it. He had been lying there for the past three hours, with his eyes fixed on nothing and his thoughts dwelling on everything - from how the universe came to exist to what led up to the invention of peanut butter…

He had been jolted from his dreams at around four in the morning, became deprived of the rest he so desperately craved by the nature of his very own dreams, and he hadn’t been fortunate enough to stumble upon a way of closing his eyes again without seeing the face of the other man. Even as he blinked, that smiling face flickered across his mind and seemed to carry him back to the night before, to that dream that had sucked the oxygen out of him, to that dream that had reduced him to a pool of sweat and racing thoughts. That dream. Everything about it, about him, still burning strong and vivid within his mind: he could still feel the other man’s lips against his, his skin pressed up against his own, their sweat blending together as they sparked their own fire within the icy chills of some unknown city. That dream. He shuddered as those spine tingling sensations flooded through him again: the feigned taste of the other man still lingering on his tongue as the soft, fabricated sounds of pleasure still whispered encouragingly to his core, the feeling of fingers running through and tugging on his hair.

He hadn’t been dreaming of men for long. Hell, he had never even thought of other men in that way until recently and, even then, he had dismissed his ‘new-found appreciation’ of the same sex as a mere phase as he crept closer to his thirties - an early mid-life crisis perhaps? At first, his feelings had never extended beyond anything that couldn’t be justified and he had always been quick to do just that, rest always came easier with vindication. The comfort that came with his justification was fleeting though, and his thoughts of other men, of him in particular, were starting to make him itch and he couldn’t help but feel as if he was hosting a stranger within his very own skin. He had tried talking himself out of whatever it was he was going through, tried to make it go away with the curves and the company of women, had even tried to ignore it altogether… all to no avail. He had been thinking about it, about him, more and more as the days passed and, as the strong thoughts transformed into even stronger urges, it became apparent to him that there was nothing ‘new’ about what he was going through.

It simply wasn’t acceptable. He could already see the disappointment in his mother’s face as he told her that she would never become a grandmother and his father…? He couldn’t even imagine what his father would say; the man had given him everything, surrounded him with everything he would ever need to become successful, had applauded him when he had surpassed his own expectations, but now…? This would surely bring an end to that unrelenting smile of his father, he was sure that this would be the first and the last nail in its coffin.

He sighed and covered his face with his hands and cried about it for the first time. It felt good to feel the hurt take the form of liquid and, as the tears stained his check, he felt a bit more relaxed knowing that a little bit of that hurt had left his body for good. He wiped his tears away before his skin could reabsorb them and firmly planted his feet on the ground, knowing that he’d be taking his first steps as a new man – one that knew who he was. As he rose to his feet, he could feel the weight of all of his emotions taking their rightful place on his shoulders, suddenly seeming to be a little bit lighter than they had been in the weeks preceding that very moment.

He silently dragged his socked feet across the floor and made his way into the bathroom with a sense of purpose, flicking on the light as he closed the door behind him. He looked at the man staring back at him and saw him for the first time for what he was. He had spent the last couple of days with his eyes fixed on the counter, sparing the man nothing more than a passing glance, unable to look at this man in the mirror. He knew that he’d look and find dark secrets that even he didn’t want to know, he’d find truths he’d been denying, he’d find a complete stranger looking back at him – that’s why he had never looked at him in the weeks prior. As he peered into his eyes now, though, he saw a mere child who was scared beyond belief, shivering in the rain with no sense of direction. It wasn’t that he was lost, not anymore, he just didn’t know where to go from that point and he hated not knowing what to tell him. He shrugged, sighed, and turned his palms up but he smiled; it was small, weakened, but it was still a smile.

He turned on the faucet of the sink and listened as the water spilled out of it and into the porcelain bowl beneath it, admiring the clarity of it and the free flowing nature of it as it pooled up at the base of the sink. He scooped up some of the water and splashed it onto his face, sighing as the coolness of it reconnected him with the now, the present. After he scrubbed his face for a moment or two, he patted himself dry with the hand towel closest to him, and checked on the man in the mirror one last time before turning the knob of the bathroom door.

He was still scared beyond belief, he was still shivering in the rain, but as he saw Cristiano stretching out from beneath his own covers he found his sense of direction. Não tenhas medo…


	2. The Man of His Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"…in spite of everything he was about to tell this man, that laugh and that smile simply put him at ease for at least a few moments. It was one of those moments you could pull out of a difficult situation, would always remember - forever."_

Miguel drew in a large amount of air as he nervously listened to Cristiano muttering curses about the brightness of the sun and chuckled as his team captain questioned the true necessity of alarm clocks. Cristiano was thrashing around beneath his covers like a five year old throwing a tantrum about having to go to school but Miguel loved him like that, just the way he was. He loved it when the winger would wake up angry about something that would never change: like what time the sun rose in the morning, mumbling about something that Miguel was certain he could have done: like shutting off that still buzzing alarm clock in this particular case, and grumbling about how he had gotten ‘literally no sleep’ the night before, though Miguel was certain that Cristiano had always passed out within seconds of hitting his mattress. He had always loved Cristiano, as a friend, but recently he had noticed him in other ways, as more than just a friend, and that had certainly started to change things… The smiles that would so often grace Cristiano’s features suddenly seemed to be for him and only him. That laugh that lit up the room and announced the presence of Cristiano Ronaldo was suddenly just another way of the forward saying ‘Hi, Miguel, I’m here.’ That playful quirk of the eyebrow so often seen in their training sessions was suddenly as suggestive and seductive as Aphrodite herself. Simply being around one of his closest friends had become something torturous; hiding who he truly was from him though, that was probably the most painful of all of his feelings. 

The defender did his best to pull himself out of his reticent state and he inwardly attempted to shake off the edge that had accompanied his recent acceptance. He could already feel himself piling the pressure high onto his shoulders though, and was certain that he would be cracking under the weight of it soon. He lightly closed his eyes and leaned against the wall, just beside the bathroom door, trying to gain some sense of composure as he went through all of his not-so-many options within his mind. He could just outright tell him: Cristiano had always been a direct person himself but Miguel…? He thought about it for a moment, sighed in defeat, and mentally crossed that option off of his short list. He could walk up to him and just lay one on him but Miguel knew that Cristiano would either clock him in the face or laugh at him thinking that he was playing around, and neither of those two possibilities were the ideal start he needed for the conversation he would soon be having. He mentally lit that idea on fire and figuratively blew its ashes away and watched as the nonexistent wind of his imagination carried them away - no fucking way. He could opt to just not tell him anything, go on living his life in fear and denial but he had been doing that for the past twenty seven years; seventeen of those years he could actually recall, could actually identify particular moments within them he found himself lecturing the man in the mirror, each time, each lecture directed towards how he had allowed the mask to slip… another line through another option.

He watched apprehensively as Cristiano finally climbed out of bed and found his footing; he found himself clenching his fist as he worked up all of the will power within his being to speak. Instead of words though, his eyes found Cristiano and he watched silently yet intently as Cristiano ventured over towards the head of his own bed and unplugged the still buzzing alarm clock from the wall. Miguel choked down a laugh as the attacker lifted the clock up off of the end table, seeming to glare at the device as he did so - so much anger, too much anger directed towards an inanimate object. Miguel soon found himself on the receiving end of Cristiano’s set of raised eyebrows and felt as if he was shrinking under the gaze of his elder. Cristiano’s tightened lips and admonishing stare weren’t enough to draw an apology out of him though, so he simply shifted his body where he stood and smiled back nervously at his captain, running his hand gently across the back of his own neck as he felt sweat starting to take form. He informed the other man that it was now past 0800 and he reminded the Madridista that he was no longer in the Spanish capital where late mornings and later evenings were deemed as ‘customary’. He did his best to come across as snide yet playful in his retort to the other man’s looks, though he feared the obvious weakness in his voice gave him away.

He braced himself for Cristiano’s usual witty comeback but was left shocked when the winger chose not to say anything in return. Cristiano seemed to simply shrug off whatever Miguel had said and, instead, offered him a mischievous smile just before he turned away from the anxious defender. Miguel could still see the alarm clock clenched tightly within his grasp and couldn’t help but to continue watching the other man, curious as to what he could possibly be up to. Miguel noticed that Cristiano seemed to be walking towards the room’s sliding glass doors with a mission, a purpose, and that combination alone frightened him. The defender quirked his brow as Cristiano threw a daring glance over his shoulder, noting that the other man’s eyebrows were still dangerously raised in mischievous intent. The defensive midfielder felt himself shift under the attention but refused to pull his sights off of Cristiano once. No, the other man had kept his sights on Miguel, never once pulling his gaze elsewhere and Miguel had no intention of losing this childish staring contest. The cold Lisbon air swept across the room as Cristiano slowly opened the door and Miguel could have sworn that the man didn’t even blink as he threw the alarm clock off of their balcony. Miguel shook his head in slight disbelief as the the creases on Cristiano’s cheeks deepened, his smirk of mischief transforming to a grin that encompassed half of his face, eyes full of pride over what he had just done. Cristiano had muttered something in his direction about how ‘that was what he had thought about early mornings’ just before giggling like a teenage miscreant as the sound of the crashing alarm clock resonated off of the pavement below, the sounds carrying all the way up to their floor - ten stories off the ground.

Miguel shuddered as he heard the clock shattering below and figured his heart would be making that sound soon, the thought alone made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He listened as Cristiano verbally recognized that he had awakened early and found himself nodding as the older man asked if he was okay. He felt as if he was about to go into a full body sweat and he soon had his hand rubbing at the back of his neck (again), doing his best to soothe the sudden tension he could easily feel building up there. He answered the root of the concern by simply stating that he couldn’t sleep the night before whilst mentally reprimanding himself with the reminder that he needed to tell Cristiano because maybe, just maybe the older man would see and pull him through all of this. He immediately backpedaled while informing Cristiano that he had actually slept a bit the night before but had been awakened by one of his dreams. As the nerves piled on and as his hands shook in fear, he finally worked up the resolve to ask the winger if he could talk to him about something. Miguel knew the the pitch of his voice had just risen out of nowhere as the question materialized into the real world, he knew that he had caught Cristiano off guard merely by the look on the forward’s face, but he applauded himself still for at least turning the conversation into the direction he needed it to go in - progress. Baby steps, Miguel. Baby steps.

He observed the sudden furrow in Cristiano’s brow and swallowed the lump that had been forming in his throat as the forward’s light chuckle reached his own ears; in spite of everything he was about to tell this man, that laugh and that smile simply put him at ease for at least a few moments. It was one of those moments you could pull out of a difficult situation, would always remember - forever; the moment fleeted, though, and left him with the anxiety of before. He couldn’t form a rational thought and he swore that the fear within him had piled up so high that it was now blocking his airways. He rubbed his sweating palms against his flannel pajama pants as Cristiano reminded him that he had already been talking to him, so why stop there? His heart pounded as Cristiano fell face first onto his bed and he smiled nervously as he watched the other man nuzzle his face into his covers - Miguel had started to find comfort in the thought, in the idea that Cristiano nuzzled into his sheets and comforters simply to take in his scent, for no greater reason than that… After a few moments, the winger quickly (a little too quickly) propped himself up on his elbows and scowled at the sheets below him. He had a quizzical look about him as he stared into the sheets and Miguel feared Cristiano had already discovered his secret before he even had the chance to tell him himself, somehow he knew. Instead, the other man posed a question to reaffirm that Miguel had been awakened by a dream of his before quickly asking if he’d get the said ‘dream’ all over his face if he continued to lay in the bed.

Miguel felt as if his heart was going to explode if he held off any longer and could feel his face redden as he audibly sighed in frustration and shook his head into the palm of his hand. He was becoming more and more agitated with himself and hated that he seemed to be incapable of just coming out and saying it. He assured the other man that he wouldn’t get his ‘dream’ all over his face as it wasn’t that kind of dream; though it was a lie, because it was certainly that kind of dream, it wasn’t at the same time as he hadn’t gotten to the point of Cristiano’s concern. He really didn’t want to talk about his dream though, and he certainly didn’t want to discuss the details of it with Cristiano, so he simply shook off the issue; his nerves were already getting the better of him and he could feel himself starting to abandon the whole idea of telling Cristiano about his recent acceptance of his sexuality. Unfortunately for his cowardice, he could hear Cristiano suddenly bringing their conversation back around to the said issue and could hear the concern in his captain’s voice as he asked him what it was he wanted to talk about. He nearly chewed his lip off as Cristiano asked if it had anything to do with his recent behavior and he found himself desperately searching for the door as the winger patted a vacant space on the bed beside him; _no, it’s too late to back out now. You need to do this for your own sake. Não tenhas medo…_

He could tell Cristiano was concerned and the captain seemed to have every reason to be; Miguel was sweating and his body was convulsing under the pressure of his nerves, he was sure his carotid artery was throbbing like nobody’s business on his throat and he was almost certain Cristiano could hear the beating of his heart more so than his own. Miguel drew in a shaky breath and slowly made his way over to the bed and had made sure to avoid making eye contact with Cristiano in doing so; he tried to convince himself that the air around him was confidence and that he could take it in any time he thought about backing out and feeding Cristiano a lie instead of the truth about what was silently killing him. He plopped down onto the mattress, easily falling under the weight of his emotions, and immediately took his face within the palms of his hands, deciding that he should just go for it - even if his heart would end up like the shattered alarm clock stories below. It was time.

He assured the captain of his national team that he had every intention of telling the rest of the team as soon as possible before greedily taking in a bit more of that ‘confidence’ that was hanging around him, sighing audibly, shakily, as a few of his tears started to cloud his vision. He trained his eyes onto the carpeted floor of their hotel room and advised his team captain that he hadn’t been feeling like himself lately, before shaking his head and chuckling nervously at himself. He clarified himself by acknowledging that he hadn’t been acting like himself for a great majority of his life while finally admitting that it was beginning to take a toll on him. It took every fiber of his resolve for him to glance over at Cristiano who had his gaze set on him intently, seeming to hang on every word he had said, but Miguel managed to release a sigh of relief as he realized that it was one of his closest friends sitting beside him worried – not the ‘obligated to be concerned’ captain of the national squad. He admitted that he couldn’t do it anymore – he seemed to be breathing a bit lighter. He admitted that he couldn’t keep up with the pretenses and the expectations anymore – his hands had finally stopped shaking. Miguel ran his hand through his hair and forced out the last of his reservations and found himself pulling at his locks nervously. He told Cristiano that he was tired of hiding in plain sight, tired of coming up with excuses as to why certain things just wouldn’t work, and that he couldn’t sell another unknown secret to the people around him that he had cared about most. Miguel sniffled as the tears fell and glanced over to meet Cristiano’s eyes; this was it, the moment he wouldn’t allow to evade him any longer, the moment he would free himself from the bonds that had imprisoned him to everything that society deemed as acceptable. This was the moment his fabricated life would fall apart – and he was ready, ready to finally start living. It was whispered but firm, hard to say but needed to be heard by someone, anyone other than himself. “I’m gay.”

He peeled his eyes off of his friend as soon as the two words passed through his lips out of the fear of the plausible response he’d receive, but out of his peripheral sights he could see the other man biting his bottom lip as the words reached his ears and he could feel Cristiano shift (nervously?) beside him. He glanced over his shoulder and out of the open sliding glass door… Cristiano was deep in thought, of that Miguel was sure, but the silence was killing him. The sweat had begun to reform on his palms and the shaking was making a return. He thought about the alarm clock shattered on the pavement outside… He knew Cristiano wouldn’t just sit there and nod; no, Cristiano wasn’t the kind of friend who would pretend that he had heard nothing of what Miguel had just said, of what Miguel had just confessed, so he anxiously waited. He turned his attentions back into the room as he heard Cristiano draw in a sharp breath of air and his heart skyrocketed as he recognized that Cristiano was about to say something – anything would’ve been better than the silence that had formed between the two of them.

Miguel was simply grateful that Cristiano hadn’t freaked out and found himself smiling in relief as the winger asked him if he was attracted to him. It was a simple question but it let Miguel know that everything was going to be okay, that he didn’t have to live his life in denial out of the fear of being brainwashed by all of those around him. He had already contemplated throwing himself off of the balcony three times within those few moments of silence but now he realized that perhaps being gay wasn’t as bad as it seemed. Without a second thought he gave in to his impulses and leaned over and gently placed his lips against Cristiano’s and held them there until the wide eyed winger panicked and broke the kiss.

Cristiano was blabbering about something Miguel couldn’t quite make out with his face still only centimeters from Miguel’s but the defender didn’t hear anything of what he was trying to say - he couldn’t hear anything outside of his own thoughts. He was busy scolding himself for being so rash and lecturing himself about how he was going to ruin everything. He had literally just came out to the man and Cristiano was obviously still trying to digest all of it, the man was barely capable of forming a complete sentence. His thoughts were going a thousand miles per hour - at least, and he was certain the earth had just kicked it’s rotation up a notch. He should’ve been appreciative that Cristiano was still sitting here with him and hadn’t gone out to try to find a psychologist who would have claimed to have been capable of ‘curing such an ailment’.

Cristiano tried to speak again but Miguel had quickly interrupted him as he shook his head in self- reprimand, heart sinking as he found himself anchored down to the reality of the situation. He pressed his forehead up against Cristiano’s, sighing as he lowered his voice to where it was sounding just above a whisper. He fervently apologized for having kissed him and informed him that he had just been happy that Cristiano hadn’t rejected him immediately after his confession. Miguel chuckled, even though it hurt him more than a little to do so, and answered Cristiano’s posed question assuring him that yes, he thought he was attractive. He hadn’t expected for everything to just fall into place as he had first envisioned this moment - with Cristiano running into his arms, whispering his mutual feelings, and all of that gushy bullshit - but he had held onto the hope that there was something between them, something that had extended beyond their friendship. He was still holding onto that hope but Cristiano’s reaction to his impulsive kiss had made the light a little dimmer. He was just grateful that the light was still on, though.


	3. Remember the Euro's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"It was Euro 2012 and there were cameras all over the conference room, questions being fired towards one of Italy’s forwards, Cassano. One of the members of the media had asked him about a rumor that had been circulating amongst journalists about the possibility of there being two homosexual players on the Italian National Squad. "Queers in the national team? That’s their business. But I hope not." The statement was echoing down to his core as he glanced around and looked at each one of his own teammates, some of which he would so often refer to as friends, and wondered who amongst them shared the same sentiments as Cassano."_

Dirt and sweat entwined beautifully with the stench of their filthy training clothes to form the peculiar yet comforting fragrance many members of the national team referred to as ‘A Hard Day’s Work’. The training session had been a grueling one, probably the toughest they had ever had as they were preparing to face Sweden soon in the first leg of the playoffs, but it was Miguel who had struggled the most that morning. He had difficulty connecting with the passes and his crosses had either skyrocketed into the neighboring Amadora providence or had come up short, none even remotely hitting the area of the player it had been intended for. As he washed the last of his conditioner out of his thick brown hair, he drew in a large whiff of ‘A Hard Day’s Work’ and found himself inwardly shuddering as he recalled his next step in this, the next step in fully accepting himself. He inwardly groaned as he cut off the water and carelessly threw a towel around his waist.

He could hear Nani and Joao exchanging a joke and had seen Bruno chasing Pepe around with a towel, using it to pop painfully at the other man as he had twisted it into a towel whip. He made his way out of the showers and towards his locker, weaving through and around his teammates attempting to simply get through them unnoticed. He heard Coentrao’s light giggle as Raul’s towel got caught in Alves’ closed and secured locker and could easily make out the embarrassed grin on the afflicted’s face. All of his compatriots had smiles on their faces and laughter flowed from within them as the melting snow on the mountain caps when the seasons changed; everybody in the room seemed to be in high spirits and at ease, everybody with the exception of two.

Miguel sighed heavily as he caught sight of Cristiano who was standing a few lockers down from him, staring pensively into his own locker; he hadn’t spoken to the forward since they had left their room for training that morning and the winger had seemed hyper focused on his day’s training session - more so than usual. Miguel had caught Cristiano staring at him thoughtfully a few times during their water breaks and every time he had offered Cristiano a small yet warm smile, however, the smile was never returned as the wrinkles on the other man’s forehead simply seemed to deepen just before he would turn away. He didn’t know what to think of it and he had tried to dismiss it as Cristiano trying to digest the situation yet it still nagged at him when he had nothing else left to distract him. Cristiano had seemed to accept him or, perhaps, he had misinterpreted the situation.

He dressed quickly as he saw the rest of the team heading out of the showers but still found his eyes wandering over to Cristiano’s stilled, standing form. Treating his mind as if it were an etch-a-sketch, he shook his head and did his best to clear his thoughts but found the ‘aluminum powder’ forming another question in his mind, one more related to this – his next step. It was Euro 2012 and there were cameras all over the conference room, questions being fired towards one of Italy’s forwards, Cassano. One of the members of the media had asked him about a rumor that had been circulating amongst journalists about the possibility of there being two homosexual players on the Italian National Squad. _"Queers in the national team? That’s their business. But I hope not."_ The statement was echoing down to his core as he glanced around and looked at each one of his own teammates, some of which he would so often refer to as friends, and wondered who amongst them shared the same sentiments as Cassano. He shuttered at the prospect of losing any one of them but he knew and accepted that this wouldn’t be all rainbows and butterflies.

Miguel gulped down a large amount of ‘A Hard Day’s Work’ and pried himself away from his locker and positioned himself within the center of the locker room area; there were a few stragglers still in the showers but nearly everyone else was within the area or within earshot of him. He cleared his throat, gulped down the last of his nerves, and silenced his fears with the last of his resolve, weakly shouting to the room that he had an announcement. He heard a locker slam and watched confusedly as Cristiano left the area, disappearing into the halls of the grounds. He tried not to dwell on it long, he couldn’t, as his teammates had all silenced themselves and made him the focal point of the room. He could feel the sweat on his palms and he felt the steady rise of his heartbeat but it wasn’t nearly as bad as it had been when he was coming out to Cristiano, no it paled in comparison to those feelings; he was certain he’d have an anxiety attack after this but for now, for now he needed to maintain his composure because if these guys saw any form of weakness… Miguel wished away the sudden visualization of a lion tearing away at a gazelle’s throat and started to speak. _Não tenhas medo…_

Bruno was the first to squeeze his shoulder and take a spot behind him, muttering something about how he’d always have his support no matter what. Joao joined him shortly after claiming that he had known something was up due to the lack of intimacy he had claimed to observe between Miguel and his wife with a few others following after him. It felt good to have their support and Miguel loved the sudden burning in his eyes as the tears of his joy threatened to pour out of them. Nani was the first person to slam his locker shut with a shake of the head and was the first to leave the room but he hadn’t been the last. It hurt Miguel and that look had cut him deeply; Nani had been one of his closest friends, they had shared so many laughs together and to see him abandoning him now - of all times - ripped right through him. It wasn’t as if he had changed, he was still the same, he had simply admitted to preferring the company of men over women. There were reassuring hugs and whispered words of comfort but the pain was still there. It didn’t matter if a million people had supported him and his recent acceptance of himself - his coming out, that one look of shame was enough to undo any of the joy he had felt from the support of his true friends.

Bento graced the locker room with his presence but only to declare that he needed to speak with Miguel alone; the way he had said it sent chills up Miguel’s spine and he was worried on where this conversation would be going. He knew the risk he would be taking by coming out but he knew in the long run, his honesty with himself would be the best choice for him and those around him. He sighed as he followed the salt and pepper haired man down the corridor and into his office where Cristiano was waiting for them. He had expected Nani to be the one to complain or even Almeida but Cristiano…? He shook his head and could hear the sound of his own heart shattering. He did his best to sit tall in the presence of the two older Portuguese men and tried to steady his quivering jaw. He could feel Cristiano’s eyes on him but he didn’t want to see what emotion – hate, disgust – would be waiting for him within them.

He bit his lip as Bento spoke and raised his brow as Paulo voiced his concern about what he had observed in training that day. He pointed out the obvious things: Miguel’s lack of focus, that his timing was off, and that there was no fluidity within any of his movements. His face scrunched up as he curiously studied the forty-four year old who was threatening to bench him for the game against Sweden if he didn’t sharpen up. Miguel simply nodded his head fervently and cleared his throat to apologize and vow to do better but the older man simply raised his hand to silence him.

Miguel continued to listen intently as Bento informed him that Cristiano had made him aware of the difficult time Miguel was currently going through - that the distraction was something personal - and went on to assure Miguel that Cristiano had somehow managed to convince him to give Miguel the next two days “off” so that he could work through “whatever it is” without the “distraction” of his national duties, without the added pressure. A few times in their conversation, Miguel had managed to steal a glance beside him where Cristiano was seated and found the eyes of the older man cast down to the ground, seeming to be more interested in his shoes than anything that was happening in the room. He couldn’t help but smile at the top of his head - in appreciation, in respect - each time before he refound the gaze of his manager.

Bento went on and made him aware that he been given a pass for the rest of the day, a pass that would allow him to make the two hour drive to Coimbra where he’d find the support of his family but required that he back by the following afternoon. Miguel nodded his head fervently at the conditions and found his feet, voicing his appreciation of Bento’s efforts and silently thanking Cristiano for his.


	4. The Man Who Created Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The tension hung thick in the room and he couldn’t possibly think of a worse place in the world within that moment. He had accomplished the nearly impossible task of rendering his parents speechless and for once, for once he wanted to hear them say something - anything._

His forehead was gently pressed against the glass of the car window, eyes set to the scenery stretching out just beyond it: to the blurs of the green grass colliding with the blue and white streaks of the sky, to the birds fluttering carelessly from tree to tree, to the markers counting down kilometers as they closed the distance between themselves and his home, his family. He had been silently hoping for a trip of wrong turns and wrong exits, anything that would buy him a little bit of time, just a few more moments to collect his thoughts and find the words he needed but he hadn’t been so ‘fortunate’; he wasn’t quite ready to face the scrutiny and sure judgement of his family quite yet. He had already considered throwing himself out of the car, rolling against the pavement until he was met with the soft grass, staring up at the clear blue sky while allowing the merry singing of the birds to drown out all of his worries but the person just beside him, the person in the driver’s seat would have never allowed it. 

> _"Take someone with you, someone you could talk to about everything you’re going through just in case things don’t quite turn out as you had planned. Whatever it may be that you’re going through, I’m sure it isn’t easy and we all need someone there who can, you know, pick us up when we fall down or give us a kick in the ass when we need it."_

Unbeknownst to his manager, all of his friends on the national team had become ‘strangers’ to him as soon as he had come out to them in the locker room; even the one’s who were ‘accepting’ and ’understanding’ seemed to be distancing themselves from him or were ‘walking on eggshells’ when he engaged them in a conversation. Worse still, his closest “friends” had completely turned their backs on him. Though he was unsure of what his Portuguese compatriot was thinking, particularly after he had leaned in and kissed him, Cristiano had been his first and only real option.

Miguel stole a glance over to where Cristiano had his eyes trained on the road and found that the older man had his fingers wrapped around the steering wheel so tight that the color of his knuckles had transformed from their original, tanned color to a ghostly white hue. Miguel hated seeing Cristiano like that, so tense, reduced to nothing more than a basket of nerves and anxiety. He wanted nothing more than to reach over and squeeze the thigh of the forward reassuringly, let him know by that subtle gesture alone that he was still the same person and that nothing had changed between them. It wasn’t the truth, though, was it? Miguel remembered his fault as he was suddenly overwhelmed by the guilt of his actions from that morning, the guilt that immediately followed their collision of lips. Something had changed.

The number four pulled his eyes off of the other man and set his sights on the license plate of the car in front of him, trying to find the words he needed to say to make everything right between himself and his captain - his friend. He couldn’t tell Cristiano he was sorry because the simple fact of the matter was that he was far from sorry, he would’ve kissed him again if he was ever given the chance. He wanted to talk to him though, he needed to hear Cristiano tell him that everything was going to be okay as he had done so many times before a big game. This wasn’t a game, though, and this wasn’t some passing moment where they’d leave it all on the pitch and move on from there… but sweeping everything under the rug, pretending like that kiss had never happened wasn’t an option either. It had been an awkward hour and a half already, filled with silence and weighed heavy with the questions both of them had yet neither of them dared to ask; Miguel was tired of avoiding the conversation though, he was ready to finally bring the silence to its end. Just before he could open his mouth to speak, he felt a sudden jerk of the steering wheel and frantically searched the signs outside for any indication as to where they were and why they were pulling off of the A1, discovering shortly after that they had already reached their exit for N341 to Coimbra. He’d be home within a matter of minutes.

He had expected for Cristiano to pull over and drop himself off at their hotel, however, when Cristiano drove directly passed the towering luxury building citing ‘moral support’ as his reasoning for doing so, he wasn’t the least bit surprised and was even relieved that he wouldn’t have to face his parents alone. Cristiano turned and offered him a small smile and, though it wasn’t the conversation Miguel had wanted and needed to have with him… it was something. Deciding that he wasn’t going to press the small act of reassurance further, as the last time he had done so yielded less than desirable results, Miguel instead started studying the street signs while sounding off the directions to his father’s home.

He felt his heart leap out of his chest and into his throat as soon as Cristiano pulled into the driveway; he wasn’t ready for any of this yet but he needed for his parents to hear this from him and not from anyone else. As soon as he felt Cristiano shift into park, he threw the door open as quickly as he could and hurled himself down onto the ground, emptying the contents of his stomach all over the pavement as he fell onto his knees. He could hear Cristiano running up to him from the opposite side of the car and, out of the corner of his eye, could see the hesitation as the winger contemplated placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Eventually he felt the other man start to rub soothing circles on his back, the touch alone calming and relieving his nerves. Cristiano had always bore such an effect on him but Miguel felt himself gently pulling away from the touch of the older man as now was not the time for that, now was not the time to be carried away by the thoughts of all that could be between them.

Miguel eventually found his feet and made his way to the door, leaning ever so gently against Cristiano for support as he had been weakened and made slightly disoriented by the sudden loss of matter, and stopped a few feet away from the one thing that now stood between himself and his parents. He took in a large breath of air as he stepped closer, feeling the anxiety starting to rebuild itself from within his core, and lifted his arm to knock. His fist hung still above the door for a few moments as he: counted _“um, dois, três, quatro”_ , prayed _“Querido Deus, deixá-los me aceitar”_ , muttered _“não tenhas medo”_ , and listened as the sounds of his knocks echoed off of the walls of the foyer.

To say that his mother was shocked when she opened the door to find him standing there would have been the understatement of the century. She dropped the dish she had been drying, sending it to shatter against the tiled floor, and yelled for his father to come to the door immediately. Soon after came the routine questions nearly every mother asked: “Are you injured?”, “What’s wrong?”, “Have you been sent off of the national squad?”, “Are you in some kind of trouble?” He answered all of her questions with a simple shake of the head and smiled as he looked into her eyes. She was always so worried about him, always concerned with his well-being, and he had often wondered how she would respond if she knew what he was going through; not so much how she would respond to his being gay rather what hiding his sexuality from the world and the one’s he loved was doing to him. Would she care that it was destroying him or would she rather him keep it to himself until he implodes from the weight of it all?

He felt his mother pinching at his abdomen, the feeling pulling him out of his thoughts just in time to hear her telling him that he seemed to be _‘too thin’_ and that she didn’t think he was eating enough. He simply smiled at her and shrugged as he watched her make her way into the kitchen while informing him that she was going to make him something to eat. He had forgotten that Cristiano was even there until the older man poked his head inside and asked if the coast was clear, drawing a nervous chuckle out of Miguel. He couldn’t blame Cristiano for his caution and thought it quite clever of him to wait as the winger had a much leaner physique than he did; he was certain his mother would have tried shoving the fattiest thing she could find down Cristiano’s throat if she had been presented with the opportunity and, if one had a diet like Cristiano’s such a thing simply couldn’t happen.

He stepped to the side, giving Cristiano room to step inside and turned towards the direction of his father’s cough as the elder Veloso entered the foyer. He had been wearing a quizzical expression that faded into a warm smile as soon as he caught sight of Cristiano standing next to him. Miguel wasn’t surprised, having been a footballer and a manager himself his father had often been vocal of his admiration for Cristiano and had listed Miguel’s playing for the Portuguese National Team as his son’s greatest achievement. Miguel quickly pulled his father into a hug and released him, watching as his father offered Cristiano a firm, lingering handshake while asking him how he thought they’d fare against Sweden. 

Figuring that Cristiano was more than qualified to handle such a conversation on his own, he took the opportunity to wander around the house, smiling as he became overwhelmed with a sense of nostalgia as the memories of his youth began to consume his every thought. Kicking the ball around with his father in the backyard, watching his father play for both Benfica and the Portuguese National squad, celebrating his wins in the family room, his losses in the dining room over a quiet meal… The memories soon faded as he found his old room. He didn’t even know the boy who had once slept in that bed anymore, the boy who had hung those posters of Eusebio and Figo on the wall seemed like a stranger to him now.

Suddenly remembering why he had come here to begin with, he made his way back down the stairs and towards the foyer, stopping as he found that Cristiano and his father had made their way into the living room. He heard them talking about tactics as he entered the room and smiled as Cristiano said ‘I just want score’. His mother soon joined them with a slice of pie on a plate for him, nearly fainting at the sight of Cristiano as she asked both António and Miguel why they hadn’t informed her of his presence. Miguel simply laughed and took the seat next to Cristiano as his father dismissed his mother’s question and posed the real question: _"So, what brings the two of you to Coimbra? I thought you guys were training down in Lisbon?"_

-

The tension hung thick in the room and he couldn’t possibly think of a worse place in the world within that moment. He had accomplished the nearly impossible task of rendering his parents speechless and for once, for once he wanted to hear them say something - anything. The words: their words _(‘What about fags? They have no place in football. Is there one on your team?’)_ , his words _(‘Dad, I’m, I’m, I’m gay’)_ , even Cristiano’s words _(‘…and the team is nothing but accepting and those who aren’t can forget about playing for the country’)_ reverberated through his mind. He couldn’t bear to look his father in the eyes as he told him, he couldn’t bear to see the disappointment and the shame he was certain was illuminating from them now that he knew. And his mother? He could already hear her sobbing and he didn’t think he could bear to see the tears streaming down her face but he had to look at her… if either of them were to accept him then surely, surely it would be her.

“Momma, please don’t cry.” Miguel choked out, the sound of his voice coming out just above a whisper, surreal to his own ears, as he slowly pulled his gaze up off of the ground, daring to find the beautiful brown eyes of his mother. “Don’t waste your tears on something as trivial as this.”

“If she’s not supposed to mourn over the loss of her son, what is she supposed to mourn over?”

_(‘What about fags?’ ‘…forget about playing for the country.’ ‘What about fags?’ ‘…forget about playing.’ ‘What about fags?’ ‘…forget.’ ‘What about fags?’)_


	5. Não Tenhas Medo...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Frantic knocks and desperate pleas, that’s all he could hear but they scattered on his ears to become little more than slurred and jumbled syllables._

Frantic knocks and desperate pleas, that’s all he could hear but they scattered on his ears to become little more than slurred and jumbled syllables. Disregarding them completely, he furrowed his eyebrows together in confusion as he ran his fingertips over the smooth surface of the glass before him, completely mystified as he tried to understand what the hell it was he was looking at. He was fairly confident that this, that the person that seemed to be trapped on the other side of this glass, had been something once. It was hard for him to believe, particularly within that moment, that this shell of a person had once held the potential to have had some sort of defined characteristic about it, that at some point in time there had been sharpened lines in the place of those blurred ones he was looking at, that those splatters of color were once contained by those lines, and that this hazy canvas as a whole had made sense to someone, had even made sense to him. He had been staring at the contorted figure for a couple of hours, desperately trying to make sense of it, wanting to see something within it that he could actually understand, but he couldn’t stomach the sight of the distorted image for too long before he was left retching over the porcelain sink basin.

Frantic knocks and desperate pleas, that’s all he could hear but they scattered on his ears to become little more than slurred and jumbled syllables. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, he thought as he watched salty water fall from his eyes and crash onto the counter top and tiles of the bathroom floor. No, he was supposed to feel free and liberated of the weight of his secret, he was supposed to feel relieved that it was no longer a ‘secret’ and that those dearest to him knew what he had been keeping locked away within himself for so long. He was supposed to feel content and proud of himself for having built up the courage at the very least, he was supposed to feel… something. Not this, not this nothing. He watched as the salty water crashed and threw his head back, desperate to feel the cold, wetness of his tears as they rolled down his cheeks. Desperate to feel anything, anything that would let him know that he hadn’t been rendered completely numb by rejection. He let them fall, his mouth opening ever so slightly in wonder as he watched his teardrops collide with the top of the counter, again and again. He brushed the tips of his fingers over the sharpness of his cheekbones and held them up in the light before him for closer examination, frowning as he saw the moisture glistening on his skin - seeing the wetness but never once feeling it.

Frantic knocks and desperate pleas, that’s all he could hear but they scattered on his ears to become little more than slurred and jumbled syllables. He slowly started to back away from the counter-top, stopping only when he felt the pressure of a wall against his back, and slowly slumped down onto the tiles of the bathroom floor in defeat. He had opened himself up only to be met by the disappointment of rejection - rejected by his closest friends, his teammates, his father, his mother… People who claimed that they would support him through anything proved to be nothing more than a crumbling pillar, people who were supposed to love him unconditionally offered him only stone hearts and even stonier glares. He thoughtlessly reached over and tugged on an electrical cord that had been plugged into the outlet just beside him, bringing the straightener at the other end crashing down onto the tile. As if in a trance, he tore the device off of the cord without sparing a moment to think over what it was he was doing - Cristiano would forgive him.

Frantic knocks and desperate pleas, that’s all he could hear but they scattered on his ears to become little more than slurred and jumbled syllables. This was it. This was his white flag. He couldn’t feel - he couldn’t feel sorry for himself, he couldn’t hate himself, he couldn’t love himself, he couldn’t feel angry, he couldn’t feel sad, he couldn’t feel hurt - and what was a life without feeling, a life made numb? The war he had been waging within, the war he had wasted so much thought and energy on, was over now; he was out of ammunition, completely drained of his resources and completely out of reasons to continue pushing. He threw in the flag, surrendered himself to the indifference; his life was already becoming no more than what he was within that moment - nothing more than blurred lines and splatters of color on a hazy canvas.

Frantic knocks and desperate pleas, that’s all he could hear but they scattered on his ears to become little more than slurred and jumbled syllables. He couldn’t understand a word of what he was hearing just as he couldn’t understand a thing of what he was seeing, of what he was becoming. He held the cord tightly within his grasp and decisively pulled himself up off of the ground, staggering over towards the shower while thinking that he’d of done better to crawl, crawl on his knees like the vile, unlovable creature he was. He threw the cord over the rod, tied the knot as perfectly tight as he could in spite of his weakness, his fatigue. Yes, this was his white flag. This was his surrender…

Frantic knocks and desperate pleas, that’s all he could hear but they scattered on his ears to become little more than slurred and jumbled syllables. His world was growing darker, colder, his breaths were growing more shallow with each passing second, his thoughts were fading to black, and all of his senses were leaving him one by one. His sense of feeling had left him long ago, he could taste nothing but disappointment but even that seemed to fade, his vision was narrowing in but one, one seemed to linger, heighten even, anchoring him to the moment…

Frantic knocks and desperate pleas, he could hear them clearly now though the person’s voice had been reduced to a mere whisper by loss: _“Não tenhas medo, Miguel, eu estou aqui.”_ He could hear those words being repeated over and over again. _“Não tenhas medo, eu estou aqui. Não tenhas medo, eu estou aqui. Não tenhas medo, eu estou aqui.”_ The sound of a piece of paper sliding beneath the door, the sound of someone leaning against and sliding down the opposite side of the door, whispering still. _“Não tenhas medo.”_


	6. ...Eu Estou Aqui

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I will always be here. I’m not going anywhere, I promise."_

_Não tenhas medo, Miguel, eu estou aqui._

_I know I may not have been here, there, in the way that you needed me to be but I, I’ve never been too good with words. I mean, I’ve always stolen your words from our little pep talks to deliver to the team during halftime and I’m going to need you, ( ~~I need you)~~ there to help me in the game against Sweden… I know, I know, I could’ve told you all of this in person, in the room back in Lisbon, on the training pitch, in the locker rooms, in the car, now… It would have been so much easier, yes, but since when have I been an easy person? I just don’t know what it is I’m supposed to say, I don’t know what you need to hear but I know, deep down inside, that I’m supposed to be the one to say it. I can’t tell you that I understand what you’re going through because I can’t and I will ~~probably~~ never understand. ~~I mean, when I told my mother that I…~~_

_I’m sorry for avoiding you after you, well, after you kissed me. I just, I didn’t know how I was supposed to respond. It was new to me and I didn’t know what I was supposed to do after that. ~~I’ve never told anyone this but, I - Irina and I broke up a couple of months ago. She still comes around because Junior needs a mother figure in his life, he loves her and she him, who am I to take them away from each other? Things just weren’t working out between the two of us though, I felt as if we were growing apart… Sorry, this isn’t about me. This is about you and~~ I just needed to let you know that I’m here. I will always be here. I’m not going anywhere, I promise. I know that I seemed to leave you after you kissed me but I promise, I promise you I was simply lost in my own thoughts, my own issues. I didn’t mean to come across as distant and cold but I, I’m sure I did and I can’t apologize enough. You needed me there for you, you had trusted me enough to tell me how you felt about me and I simply shut you out because I was confused…_

_I can be so fucking selfish, I’m so fucking sorry, and then, then I left you in that locker room. All by yourself. Well aware of what you were about to do, what your intentions were. I should’ve never left you to face the guys alone, not with that kind of message for them. A captain is supposed to show his support and as a friend, a friend is supposed to be so much more than that but where the fuck was I? It was a ~~pretty~~ dick move and I was just… You know what? There’s no excuse for it. Every reason I could possibly come up with is nothing but selfish and as your friend, as your friend I should’ve been there. Period. I don’t care about how many of them were ”accepting”, if even one showed disgust for who you are it was my responsibility, is my responsibility to put the nail in his coffin. And then, after we left Betno’s office, you started to act strange around everyone and I, I didn’t understand but you can make me understand. I want to understand. Please, just help me understand this, you, everything. I’m failing as a friend and I, I can’t fail. Not at this. This is too important. I mean, I should have punched your father as soon as he referred to you as a faggot, for regarding you as inferior when you, you have accomplished more in your career than he ever had in the entirety of his life. A friend would’ve put him in his place, a friend would had rectified his error and I, I failed to do so. And I know, I know they’re the reason you’re locked in there, in here, in the bathroom. I know I’m part of the reason. I should’ve done something, said something, been there for you. And I’m sorry, I’m so sorry that I wasn’t. Please, open the door, Migs. I’m here. I’m here and I promise you I’m not going anywhere. Please come out of there, Miguel._

_Não tenha medo, Miguel, eu estou aqui e eu acho que eu quero te beijar de novo._


End file.
